They Will Not Eat the Bird of Paradise

but they will devour the rose, the foxglove,
the lily of the valley, their flat teeth
scouring the crocus to a nub
over cold names and dates. They will not eat
the bird of paradise, but they will
crouch on the cheat grass and mark the iris
with their urine, and lie on headstones,
chewing their cud. After the grave
diggers have wiped down their shovels,
the furred shapes will rise at dusk from
behind the Walmart, hooves
sinking into mud along Garner’s creek.
Vinegar, garlic, black pepper,
nothing stops their coming from
the long grasses, the old
ones scraping antlers, the young
testing their milk teeth on weeds outside
the embalmer’s window as he works late
to disinfect the body, shaving the face
so makeup won’t cake the fine hairs.
And the nose arranged just so.
And the anus plugged with cotton,
the mouth filled with paste to make
the lips more pleasing. They will not eat
the bird of paradise, but an old ravaging
will sheer away the tulips and wild lavender.
They will come from the woods around
Elkhart and Albion, the wide
open fields along Route 9, moving
as the dead’s new dream of spring.
Such relentless taking. They will not care
about grief, just sweet leaves and the damp
sexual hearts of the flowers, all teeth
and tongues in a dark night
of acorn shells and amaryllis, endless
mouths culling the perfumed
bodies of carnation, clematis, the lilac
bouquets lying heaped and left
nearly rotten by the January rain.

current issue

Confluences

Before Robert was born, scientists of the Human Genome Project had begun mapping our species’ DNA structure and variants, all three billion nucleotides. They finished in 2003.

In 2012, Robert’s genomic analysis showed one mutation inherited from me, the other de novo, unreported or entirely new. A transcription error during gamete replication, perhaps. A silent ping from a heretofore unknown genomic universe. A one in three billion chance happening, his geneticist said of my son, a roll of the conceptual dice.